Saturday, May 14

When Happy McDoodle tried to write HM found herself unable to do so. She drank alot of water, always kept a bottle by her side, listened to Joan Baez go on about some carpenter something, sat by the window for a bit. But she can't write anymore. Because we've all learnt that that's a stupid thing to do. We wrote, we wrote happily and freely, with hardly any restraint, we kept nothing for ourselves and got skullfucked in the process.Are you challenging me to a duel, sir ?

About Me

Murphy, the patron saint of petulant pretty boys everywhere, the compulsive rubber of her face into soft kitten bellies, the debilitated drinker of spirits, one in heart and soul with chinese food, writes predominantly about herself and believes that it really ought to stop.